Death of the Author
by Ridiculosity
Summary: She had probably pondered, considered, agonised, thought, rethought, written and rewritten everything she wanted to say to him for the first time - and it still was never enough. Because he never replied back. [Soulmate AU - whatever you write on your arm, is copied on your soulmate's. Sherlolly.]
1. What is an Author?

**THAT'S RIGHT, I'M BACK TO WRITING AND I MISSED YOU ALL VERY MUCH.**

 **Yes, the story is titled after Barthes' beautiful, ~beautiful~ little essay - Death of the Author. AND YES, THE CHAPTER TITLE IS AFTER FOUCAULT'S EVEN PRETTIER ESSAY, 'What is an Author?' I love me some poststructuralist criticism.**

* * *

Molly stared up at the ceiling.

The clock ticked incessantly.

 _One,_ she thought. _Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven –_

Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimed twelve.

Molly's heart clenched tightly in her chest. She felt the rush of sensation up her throat – unable to stop the gentle fluttering in her stomach. She didn't bother turning on the light – still staring at the ceiling.

For a second, the feeling was the only thing reigning in her heart. Then, she picked up the pen on her side table – and hoped the god that whoever it was she was speaking to wasn't asleep.

 _Hello,_ she scribbled on her left arm. _I'm Molly._

The words faded gently – one letter at a time. She paused.

 _Happy birthday to me,_ she added on her arm.

* * *

The glow of the lamp was decent company – better than Mycroft, in any case. The silence was acceptable, since his brain was humming – he watched the test tube closely, willing the experiment to deliver results.

The clock ticked.

Sherlock measured a cup of salt carefully, ignoring the throbbing noise of the clock.

His parents weren't asleep – they decided a better use of their time was in picking up Mycroft from the airport, since he was coming for Christmas. This kind of behaviour was idiotic to say the least – and something Sherlock refused to participate in.

His arm tingled.

He wanted to ignore it entirely, since there were more pressing concerns – but he knew he had to look, see what his _soulmate_ was saying to him. He might miss important information – information which would allow him to avoid the individual altogether.

 _Someone turned eighteen,_ he thought.

Twentieth December. Twentieth December. Twentieth December.

 _Hello,_ said the words. _I'm Molly._

He never responded – he had never planned to, of course. Whoever this Margaret was – with her birthday on twentieth December, currently eighteen years old and probably _stupid –_ he didn't want to speak to her. It was lucky he was alone when she decided to contact him – had Mycroft been around, he wasn't entirely sure what his brother would have said.

 _Happy birthday to me,_ continued Molly of the twentieth December birthday.

The words faded from his arm.

He could see the cramped writing, deliberately saving paper space. Perhaps not in a very well off family – a blue collar job for her father, a mother who went for weekly book club meetings or Bingo. He sensed more than deduced that she lived in the country. He noticed how cautious she was in her opening – how restrained, how the words themselves betrayed a sense –

 _Recoil._

* * *

Despite his irritation, the words kept appearing. He was eighteen as well when they had appeared for him, he didn't feel the need to yammer incessantly. He was irritated at this girl – who tended to interrupt him in the middle of work. He began ignore the tingling of his arm, particularly if it happened too close to experiments.

But some of the words did slip through.

 _Difficult day today. Professor Warner tried to put me in detention again._

Information such as this was as frustrating as it was to have his arm tingle once every day. What did she mean _again?_ How many times had the man tried to put her in detention? What had she done to warrant attention such as this from her teacher? As far as he could tell, teachers were as useless as half the human population – and could be ignored almost entirely, if you bothered them little. What was _she_ doing that caused the teacher to dislike her so much?

At times, he almost wished to write back – just to see why she was holding back such a lot.

He was certain she was holding back – so certain, in fact, that he considered, briefly, investigating. Her words were always in isolation – always betraying the tiniest of facts, never her identity – the barest of details, ones that mattered little.

Her gym teacher. Her marks in biology. Her friend, Meena's birthday. Her mother.

Never _herself._

He knew precious little about what she liked, about what she enjoyed, about what she _thought._

At times, he would roll his eyes when his arm would tingle and he would not check what she had said. He didn't care to hear about how she had done on calculus.

At times, he was curious. Briefly – for seconds, for minutes.

 _Hope you're having a good day. Mine hasn't been – but then, neither has my year._

Curious.

* * *

At times, he deduced her as an exercise.

She was going to be nineteen years old today, finishing school in a few months. She had one close friend, Meena, who had her birthday in August. She was probably poor, or she lacked financial support in some way or the other. She liked biology, going by her considerable standard and grades – which seemed to chafe for the _Professor Warner_ of hers. Sherlock only had to assume it was because she was a girl – and a few things clicked in place. She was rule abiding, from what he could tell.

She was cautious.

Not with her emotions – with her identity. With whomever she was. She was deliberately misleading, which made Sherlock grind his teeth. She was possibly fatherless, since she never spoke of her father. He wondered whether her father was not active in her life, but her profile didn't quite fit – she would have mentioned her father if he was part of her life, or she would have been affected by his prolonged absence enough to be a different person. As such, Molly of the twentieth December birthday was just too _quiet._

Which was an irritating paradox, for someone who absentmindedly wrote on her arm every day.

He had kept her a secret – a well-kept one, since no one needed to know of this _liability._ Trevor, in fact, was the only one who had guessed.

And that was one year into college, too. Victor Trevor had looked at him up and down, in the middle of his experiment – his arm, tingling a little (which he ignored) and grinned.

"You ever reply back?" he asked with his wolfish smile.

"No," said Sherlock shortly.

"Nice," said Trevor.

Sherlock never asked him how he knew his arm was tingling.

* * *

The girl was kissing him – Sherlock was attempting, to the best of his abilities – to focus, to categorise the sensory data that the encounter was affording him.

He often found it hard to conduct a sexual experiment without one or two variables being uncontrollable. If it was not the excess of sensory data, it was frequently the emotions of his partner in question. He had categorised sexual stimulation done in isolation – considerably easier, since the only variable that had to be controlled was himself.

His arm tingled.

" _Fuck,"_ he cursed. He considered ignoring Molly of the twentieth December birthday for a minute. Entertained the idea of avoiding listening to her – and then shook his head.

"Excuse me," he muttered. "I need a second."

"No worries," said the girl, guessing the reason and glancing at his arm. "I don't guarantee staying by the time you come back, though."

Sherlock grit his teeth. He wrenched himself away from the woman, and disappeared from the alleyway. It was behind the bar that he had found the blonde girl in – and at the moment, he needed more privacy than what an alleyway or a bar could offer.

He nearly tore his sleeve aside when he entered the bar's men's room.

 _I know no one is listening on the other side,_ Molly of the twentieth December birthday had said.

Odd.

He locked himself in the stall, waiting to see if more was coming. His arm was still tingling.

 _I know no one is listening, because hardly anyone ever is. Whoever you are – if you are there, that is: I wish you luck with this world. I wish you as much luck as you will need – because I'm barely managing._

The words faded.

 _Sometimes I wonder why I bother – I wonder why I should even try – who would be interested in my life as an average person in a world of other averagers? A mediocre genius, that's what I would call myself – intelligent, but mediocre. Nothing brilliant – nothing blazing. Nothing much._

Sherlock was watching, for the first time, with rapt attention. Almost nothing was in his head at the time.

 _I've been forcing my life forward this last year. I told myself to accept my stepfather, but it's hard – and I told myself to accept whatever he gave me, but that's hard too. I had nothing but my mother – and she's leaving, now._

His mind raced – leaving _where?_ Job? Security? A new marriage?

 _Dad died of cancer, when I was in fifth grade, did I tell you?_

No.

 _Mum isn't dying, but she's leaving all the same – she's going for some new job somewhere._

Ah.

 _And I'm staying with Fred – at least, until I go for college, that is. Fred's sons are getting on my nerves. James has tried to kiss me twice now, and I –_

 _I'm – alone._

Letter by letter, Molly of the twentieth December birthday faded.

 _Have a good day._

* * *

Trevor was saying something that Sherlock was tuning out almost completely.

"Holmes?" he said. "You listening?"

"Yes Trevor, continue to fascinate me with whatever inane rubbish you have," said Sherlock, without looking up from his book.

"You distracted bastard," said Trevor good-naturedly. "You've been off for weeks and you know it."

Sherlock ignored him again. His eyes shifted, of their own accord – to his arm.

For weeks, there was nothing.

Whoever she was, she disappeared from his arm as quickly as the words had faded.

Sherlock found himself glancing at his arm periodically. He told himself that it was nothing more than an idle curiosity, but he knew that he was heading into dangerous terrain.

He had _thought_ about her. Consciously.

He had deduced the words she had written. She was not poor; she was just neglected by her step family. She was careful with herself, because she was unsure of support. She was quiet about her father because he was dead. She was going to come to college soon, and going by who she was – he had assumed it would be medicine.

His brain was gnawing for more information – information that was no longer forthcoming.

* * *

Trevor had offered him some drugs – which was helpful, all things considered. Sherlock's brain became quiet after a decent seven per cent solution.

His mind was almost constantly racing – and, irritatingly, it was frequently towards her.

By the time Molly of the Twentieth December birthday was in University, he would be in his second year. He wondered, idly, what she would be studying. Whether she would take up biology and become something as boring as a medical professional. He wondered whether she would ever write again.

A light, slightly ticklish sensation climbed up his arm. Sherlock tore away his sleeve -

 _I'm going to be studying pathology soon._

Molly of the Twentieth December birthday was becoming an _interesting_ person.

* * *

He had begun taking cases on and off – some illicit affairs which he solved in the span of a day, at times, missing items – no one was willing to give him anything more. Notably, a missing person's case. The man ended up somewhere outside the country to escape his wife.

University was becoming an interminable bore. His professors bored him, his peers irritated him – and his experiments with sex were over. There was nothing for him to do except the occasional substance abuse, paired with a smattering of ridiculous cases.

Molly had begun speaking again. Her words came hauntingly, her authorship as restrained as it ever was – with moments of quiet reverie. She was saying a little more in her words – a tiny bit more. He didn't know why she had gained the ability to do so, but he suspected it had something to do with her mother being gone.

News of her mother was sparing. Sherlock learned that she was working in Denmark, and that her stepfather wasn't very keen on joining her there. Strains on their marriage weren't his concern, but Molly seemed to be effected by it.

How effected she was by everything – by everyone. Sherlock found her a paradox that did not resolve itself – with her heart open to the idiocy of the rest of the world, yet she could not give herself up either. She was nonsensical, and frankly, he was exasperated by her. He hated sounding like a lovelorn _sap –_ waxing poetic about his construction of a woman that he had never met, but she was confusing – and that was in the brief moments of clarity that her words provided.

He wondered whether she would be just as confusing in person.

His arm tingled again – and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Speak of the devil.

Her words hesitated so much – so very, very, very _much –_

 _I_

 _Um_

 _I met someone today._

Sherlock paused.

 _He's in my class,_ came the next set of words.

The urge to tear off his arm nearly overwhelmed him. He texted Victor for a new dose.

* * *

For the first time, he wondered what she looked like.

Would she had brown hair? Blonde? Black? Red? Light gold? Brownish gold? Auburn?

What would her eyes look like – round? Was she dark skinned? If she was, did she have large eyes – black in colour, or perhaps brown? Would she have thin eyes – Asian heritage, perhaps? Would she be small – would she be tall? What would she look like once she smiled? What would happen to anyone watching her smile?

What would her fingers look like? What would her hands?

Whatever Molly was – the author of a very sparing, tiny little story – a small player in a life that was unremarkable – she could not be real. Her existence was a nightmare, something his subconscious had spun out of the depths of his imagination – writing stories that he had never expected himself to read.

 _His name's William. He's not very tall, his hair is golden – he's rather nice._

That's how she described the man of her current life, the new character that Sherlock disliked instantly and mindlessly. And what story was she writing now – what with a new character? What story did he want to read? Was he to enter as a character?

Would he like himself in her story?

Instinctively, he knew he wouldn't. She was a half formed idea of a person, a jigsaw puzzle which he could see only through a straw and in bits – but she was _kind._

That Molly of the Twentieth December birthday was kind came to him so naturally, without deduction – was unsurprising. It practically reeked in her words – what she gave up for other people, how pleasant she was to everyone around her and how little she was noticed by anyone with the exception of her friend – Meena.

And he – he wasn't – he wasn't a very pleasant man.

 _Pleasantness. Kindness._ Dear _god._

He decided he needed another dose.

* * *

Through the haze of the drugs, it occurred to Sherlock that she had not said much about the man after that. At times, she said she was going out with him. Or that he was taking her out. It didn't matter in either case – nothing mattered, except for his mind being silent.

Silence.

Quiet.

She had said things – other things. About her experiments, about her classes. In moments of brief lucidity, he was interested in what she was attempting to research.

Mycroft had attempted to contact him, but he had fobbed him off.

He was months away from dropping out of college completely – until, of course, he got himself together and forced himself to work through the remainder. He had a degree now – and nothing else.

The drugs in his system were helpful additives to a cause that was increasingly looking achievable – the destruction of Sherlock Holmes, his disappearance from this plane of existence. No one needed him – he was painfully emotionally unavailable, incendiary, and, frankly, a rather _rude_ man.

And then, she said: _I broke up with William today. It had to happen, I suppose – he wasn't a very nice person, despite pretending to be._

He focussed on her words. He had to clear his head a little, let go of the drugs, and -

 _I sometimes feel as if someone is listening on the other side – despite me saying absolutely nothing, I feel as if someone is watching me. Writing me._

 _Can I be candid for a second? William is a very nice person. He's kind to people – he cares. He's also a horrible, passive aggressive man who could make me feel like nothing without saying anything terribly out of place. He isn't cruel – he's not even very rude – but goodness, how he can be both of those things without being either._

 _I don't suppose you're like that, are you? No – I'm guessing not. I've sometimes thought about – thought about you. What you would look like. Whether you're listening. Who you are._

 _If you have been listening for all these years, then it only remains to be seen why you haven't responded. I can only imagine a few reasons – the first one being that you did not want to be attached to me, which I can understand. But that makes little sense, given that you don't know me. So perhaps you are avoiding attachments altogether?_

 _Which makes me think you're lonely._

 _Or perhaps you force yourself to be._

 _Which makes me wonder why – perhaps you consider yourself unlovable. Perhaps you think you are beyond attachment. Perhaps you think you are too interesting, and need nothing in this world._

 _I don't suppose I should add – perhaps you are right in all those things. You might be too interesting, beyond attachments – but I don't think you're unlovable._

 _I think we tend to make a world where we consider everything about ourselves unlovable. We're unkind to ourselves, and then we become unkind to others. We become ruder, and unbearable, and frankly, we become impossible to deal with. It isn't that everyone can be loved – rather that everyone tries their level best to be unlovable. Because we hate ourselves. We look at our bodies and find flaws, we look at ourselves and see nothing but destruction. We hate how we speak, how we talk, how we dress._

 _We should stop that. It makes the world more difficult. We should stop looking for others to fill our gaps and inconsistencies and hatred of ourselves – and we should just stop hating ourselves._

 _I imagine you're nice. Not having-tea-and-biscuits nice, but nice. You try, at times. You are probably not a very kind person, because if you haven't responded yet, you don't know how to be. You're not a bad person. You're just… working out how to be good._

 _That's just my imagination, of course. I'm writing you as much as you write me – and I don't even know if anyone is listening, or if I am just babbling into oblivion._

 _Which is the more likely option._

 _I hope you figure it out, whoever you are. I don't care if you don't respond – not anymore, anyway._

 _Molly._

Sherlock stared as the last 'y' of Molly faded away.

He picked up his phone, dialling the first number that came to his mind.

"Mycroft?" he said quietly. "Send your car. I'm going to need some help."

* * *

 **More to come! R &R, concrit accepted!**


	2. Structure, Sign and Play

**Guys I'm so sorry for the delay! I swear, it was because of my internet - I've had this chapter written fo S.**

 **Hope you like it! And yes the chapter title is a shorter version of Derrida's Structure, Sign and Play essay. Man, what a doozy that essay is, right? I had a headache for three days after I studied it, that ma about complicated things like nothing else.**

* * *

"Twenty one year old female, unidentified, found on London Bridge by a couple who were spending their anniversary together. Suspected suicide, since the murder weapon was found right next to her."

"Boring," rattled of Sherlock.

"Come on, Holmes," said Lestrade. "Just do what is needed."

Sherlock considered. "Fine. I have nothing pending, not as of now."

"There's a man," said Lestrade. "Meet you at Barts? There's a new pathologist around."

"Can't be half as incompetent as Harvey," said Sherlock. "I'll meet you there, Detective Inspector."

Sherlock looked on his murder wall.

Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to allow him to pin things on it. Truth be told, it was likelier that Sherlock would have done so anyway. Keeping the house a wreck allowed Mrs. Hudson to check on him; provide him with sustenance and water; or check for drugs.

Which was patently absurd, but he had a strong suspicion that Lestrade had told her to keep an eye out. Mrs. Hudson played the part of a slightly kooky old woman rather well, Sherlock thought, particularly since she was as sharp as a cartel owner's wife would ever be. Her affinity to find drugs was only superseded by her skills as a cook.

Sherlock shut his eyes, meditating briefly.

He was bored of his stint with drugs. It was, frankly, a weakness on his part – fuelled by absurd circumstances.

He ignored the part of his brain that had stashed away memories of the rehabilitation centre. The ones where he would be in constant – unceasing agony, with only the promise that Molly of the Twentieth December birthday would send him a message regularly. Every time his arm tingled, Sherlock had disgustedly read whatever she had been writing – her new experiments, her research, her entry into the medicinal world – as if she was some sort of anchor to reality.

As if he cared.

He ignored this part of his brain. He ignored the part that found his memories of her in the emotion driven core of his mind palace – the attics, the higher floors.

He ignored all this – and headed to Barts.

* * *

He looked critically at the body.

"What? No comments? If you complain about the sutures one more time –"

"Do be quiet, Anderson," said Sherlock, without looking up. "You may feel pleased that I am admiring an excellently done autopsy."

"What, really?" asked Lestrade.

"You are?" asked Anderson.

"I am," said Sherlock, bending forward, carefully observing the nails of the woman in question. He glanced at the table to see the employee profile of the newest addition.

 _M. Hooper._

 _20_ _th_ _December, 1981_

His eyes swooped across the file, ignoring the remaining details.

The door of the morgue opened, swinging shut behind what could only be a very small person. Sherlock was paying little to no attention, when –

"Ah – thank you, Doctor –"

"Hooper," said the new entry. "Molly Hooper."

Sherlock looked up. His head tilted automatically as he regarded her.

Pathologist, just finished with her training period – in the top facility in London.

Molly of the Twentieth December birthday was small – brown hair, brown eyes. Her face was angular and rather plain – forgettable, in an interesting sort of way. She smiled too much entirely, she was nervous – she had a tendency to trip a lot. She had one mother, one step father, two step brothers – her mother was away on holiday in Aspen, from what he remembered. She wore a size five shoe, her dressing sense was _atrocious_ for someone extremely intelligent – and her preferred autopsy was one where flesh was _fried._ She made terrible jokes; at times, she loved very easily and she wrote on her arm every day for so many years he had lost count.

Her pupils dilated when she saw him for the first time.

"So, what do you think, Holmes?"

Sherlock looked disinterestedly at the body.

"Um – if – if anyone's interested," said Molly Hooper of the Twentieth December birthday. "I have some evidence that this isn't – isn't –"

"Suicide," finished Holmes. "I'm assuming you ran some tox screens, and examined the nails?"

Molly Hooper blinked. "Yes," she said.

He turned to Lestrade. "I work with her. See to it that it is done."

And he swept out of the morgue with a reasonable amount of panache.

* * *

He looked on his murder wall dispassionately, wondering whether or not the newly dead had any secret lovers.

His arm tingled.

 _I met someone new today._

Oh, wonderful.

 _Brilliant of her to meet someone new on the same day as she meets me,_ thought Sherlock bitterly. Whoever the new specimen was – the underwhelming character of four cats and endless divorces, Sherlock was unsure how he would react. He knew that he had never liked the suitors Molly Hooper had inadvertently told him about. He knew that this dislike was irrational: he knew neither the woman they were courting, or the people themselves.

Who would this new fellow be? Some cheap knock-off of her college boyfriend? Or a brand new monstrosity?

 _Calls himself Consulting Detective. Blue eyes – cheekbones that could cut someone, if you know what I mean,_ came the next set of words.

Oh, _no._

This was significantly worse than any cheap knock-off monstrosity.

He knew instinctively that he didn't want Molly Hooper to like him. She was too good, too kind – too caring, too breakable.

 _I've never met someone as smart as him._

His chest pricked uncomfortably.

* * *

He discouraged that kind of nonsense in her as much as he could.

She was needlessly kind, as he had expected her to be. She would clean his slides and protect his cultures, and chatter with him about Mr. Armstrong of the bashed in face, and Mrs. Lively of the brain tumor.

Molly liked the dead. She felt so comfortable around them, it made everyone around her uncomfortable. Outsiders, to the stories she wrote for the people on the slab. She didn't even realise she was doing it – but she found the words people had said – the ones that had never been quite uttered, existing between the planes of the living and the dead, and she coaxed them gently into something like a story.

And she didn't care if anyone didn't listen, which made her doubly odd. She didn't even care if Sherlock was cold to her, or dismissive of her.

* * *

"Molly!" he called, agitated. "Who _butchered_ Clara Davidson?"

Molly looked up from the paperwork quickly, dropping her pen as she jumped at the sound of his voice. "Um – Sher – it was – I mean, it's not important."

"It was _Harvey,_ wasn't it?" continued Sherlock, pacing the lab.

"Easy, Holmes," said Lestrade warningly.

Molly blushed red. "I wouldn't want to tell you," she said.

"Well bring her out," he said angrily. "Do _not_ butcher her further, Molly."

"Righto," she said cheerfully, smiling at him in a placating sort of way.

That uncomfortable prick in his chest made itself known. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please," he added perfunctorily.

"No problem," said Molly. "Meet me at the morgue? Let's see what poor Miss Davidson needs."

And she ambled out of the lab, muttering to herself about a list of things that she could use and would demand from the labs.

Lestrade was looking at him curiously.

"What is it, Detective Inspector?" said Sherlock, irritated.

"You _listen_ to her," he said.

"I do no such thing," said Sherlock shortly.

"You _do."_

He did. He couldn't help it.

No matter how rude, unkind, or cruel he was, Molly always smiled at him like he had done nothing wrong. This had an unfortunate side effect of making Sherlock behave – without reacting to his deliberate unreasonableness, Molly Hooper was able to control it – a fact that Sherlock was made aware of by Lestrade of all people.

It bothered him that Lestrade had noticed. If Lestrade had noticed, had the others? God forbid, had Anderson?

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone."

"There's nothing to tell."

This kind of dangerous nonsense had to be stamped out at once. Sherlock barely said two words to Molly for the next one week.

* * *

He was breathing heavily after his confrontation with Miss Davidson's boyfriend. There were morons throughout London, and Miss Davidson's was a prime example of one.

He needed to _think._

He looked around. He needed to think, preferably somewhere to take a shower and perhaps pace. And then, maybe he could voice his thoughts without an audience that clucked in horror and brought him tea and biscuits – as if _sustenance_ was what he needed.

He shut his eyes, moving through London.

His arm tingled.

Of course.

He didn't bother examining his arm. Molly would probably be giving details of the newest case on it. At times, she would be scribbling down well placed and rather accurate hunches. He was not necessarily impressed: it fit her profile, that she would be interested in murder most foul.

He made up his mind.

By the time Sherlock reached Molly Hooper's apartment it was twelve in the night. The stars were never out in London, but once in a while you may spy one or two – and tonight, Sherlock could see a few of them. London breathed slowly at night, whispering words into skies that didn't care to listen.

He knocked the door. Her ginger footsteps were obstructed by something large and heavy that she was carrying. He rolled his eyes.

"Put the bat down, Molly, it's me."

"Sherlock?" asked Molly quickly from behind the door.

"Who else?" asked Sherlock impatiently.

"Um. How do you know my address?" she asked.

"I memorised it from your file. Don't worry, I have no ulterior stalking motivations – although it is very wise of you to be worried. I would suggest getting better locks, though, if that _is_ an overriding concern of your life. These are pitifully easy to break into."

"Um," said Molly. "Can I trust you not to murder me or assault me if I let you in?" she asked, slightly muffled.

"On second thought, keep the bat with you," said Sherlock. "It might give you a sense of calm."

There was a small silence. "Okay," she said. The door clicked open.

"Why would Davidson be dating that moron?" asked Sherlock, striding in.

"Good evening to you too, Sherlock," said Molly nervously.

He looked at her without really paying attention. She was dressed in a large sweatshirt, with comfortable pyjamas. He was almost certain those had stayed the same since she finished schooling.

"Why would a woman who is clearly conventionally attractive, with an excellent job and many benefits be going out with someone such as Michael Bachelor, of all people? His name is an indicator of a bad choice," said Sherlock, pacing in her living room. Perfunctorily, he noticed the books that were spread across the coffee table – which were eclectic, to say the least. Molly seemed to be a bit of a bookworm: she had _To Kill a Mockingbird_ rubbing shoulders with _Game of Thrones,_ biology journals stacked on top of dystopian fiction.

"Um," said Molly, clasping her hands. "I dunno?"

He looked at her again, as if noticing her for the first time. "Where's your bat? I thought I told you to keep it with you."

"Uh – well, I don't know – you don't _seem_ to be attacking me –"

"Irrelevant. Whether or not I do it, someone else might – and your grip on the blessed thing is poor, to say the least."

"What?" asked Molly.

"Here," said Sherlock shortly, stepping forward. He grasped the bat from the sofa side where Molly had propped it up. He lifted her elbow gently, ignoring the odd _bursting_ sort of sensation he felt. "One hand like that, the other from the other side. Spread your feet apart." His fingers tingled lightly when he held her soul-arm. He withdrew almost immediately.

"Thanks?" she said, unsure.

"If Davidson wanted a mediocre man, why did she have to pick someone so clearly a criminal?" continued Sherlock, nearly walking over her.

Molly grinned, then, putting the bat down. "You know what they say," she winked uncharacteristically. "Girls and bad boys."

Sherlock gave her a sour look. "A misjudgement at best. 'Girls' don't care for 'bad boys' they care for the illusion of control. For any semblance of control, the so called 'bad boy' in question has to be someone who has enough intelligence to appear outside societal rules – not traditional, law oriented ones – but social mores. Bachelor has neither the intelligence nor the gumption to attempt that kind of pretence – he's a plain and simple drug dealer, and not a very intelligent one, at that."

Molly was looking at him very oddly. Sherlock continued to pace, lost in thought.

"Maybe she liked him," Molly suggested.

Sherlock snorted. "He's not what you would call a sparking personality, Molly."

Molly shrugged. "Maybe she was investigating him."

Sherlock paused.

"I'm going to fry some Mars bars. Would you like some?" she asked, turning away.

The slam of the door was distinct and rather definite.

By the time she turned around, he was gone.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked the empty room.

* * *

Sherlock needed to go to Baker Street. He needed to re-examine the evidence.

Davidson _had_ to have been investigating Bachelor.

Which meant that she was possibly looking for something more than Bachelor – Bachelor was low level, hardly someone at the top of the tower. But he was high enough to get her into surprise venues. Possibly some higher level dealers.

She must have _upset_ someone.

Staging suicide was the _modus operandi_ of one of the gangs, if Sherlock remembered clearly. Bachelor – he wasn't sure if Bachelor was part of that gang. The trail, on the other hand, was clear.

He was considering calling Lestrade briefly with the development, when his phone trilled. He frowned at it before opening. Perhaps it was Lestrade.

 _Do NOT call DI. Lest. On Hol w/his wife! Let him BE, Sherlock. xMolly_

Sherlock sighed.

The next thing he knew, his arm was tingling. Molly was _chatty._

 _One of these days, Sherlock is going to give a heart attack to someone and the next thing you know, they'll shoot them by accident. It's been a weird night._

He rolled his eyes. He had no chance of being hurt by her poor posture with that bat.

 _I wonder if I did something wrong? He left rather abruptly._

He resisted the urge to write back and tell her that she did nothing wrong. Meeting Molly gave rise to the most curious reactions in him – before, as a disembodied voice, he could ignore her – ignore the periodic tingling, the sensation that he _ought_ to respond – that she was important.

Now, it was replaced by the sense that he _should_ respond to her because she would say things that deliberately provoked a reaction from him. Which was odd, because Molly's tone hadn't changed overmuch. The logical conclusion was that he was the one in error – his was the fault, in feeling like having a conversation with her.

They were playing a game, he was sure of it. She played within her circle – within her structure, and he played outside it. She authored a story that she was certain no one was reading, while he was reading every word. He had an advantage, because unlike her –

He had ensured a dead reader.

* * *

 **R &R, concrit appreciated, and reviews are the purest form of love and affection.**


	3. From Work to Text

**Hello! Sorry for all the delay, I was busy working on Episkey for a while. I know I've not been the most reliable for an update, but that is seriously because I'm juggling a few other unpublished stories.**

 **ANYWAY I'D LIKE TO THANK Nirvs (nirvanad) FOR HER BETAING WHICH WAS BEAUTIFUL.**

* * *

He peered into the microscope.

On his left, a thin test tube with red liquid was placed carefully on a stand. Molly elbowed Sherlock gently, and without looking up, he extended his hand. Two rubber gloves were placed on it immediately.

"Sister?" she asked cheerfully.

"Sister," he confirmed.

"Meena owes me twenty," said Molly gaily.

She was in an oddly good mood, and Sherlock knew why. Sherlock wasn't _supposed_ to know why – but Molly had a tendency to write on her arm.

Her Mum had called today. And she had probably sounded nice. The muscle in Sherlock's jaw had jumped, unable to comprehend why Molly would still care about her mother – since her mother was clearly using her for some cash. Most likely – Molly's mother had not saved enough, in their slightly over the top suburban lifestyle.

And Molly was the idiotic sentimental type to care about people like her mother. Sherlock didn't know why it irked him so much – most people were sentimental about the people who raised them. Personally, he didn't understand why it should matter if someone is adopted, since research has proven that the environment has as clearly an effect on character as genetics – if not more.

But every dramatic show Molly watched told him that people cared about that sort of thing. An inefficient waste of emotion.

Molly watched a lot of TV. She read a lot of books. She enjoyed weird, popular kind of music. He had spotted a piano covered in dust in her apartment, however, it was well tuned. Unplayed, but well tuned.

It had been nearly a year and a half of this. A year and a half of knowing Molly. Of hearing her, her words heading into an abyss which only he had access to.

"What would you like for dinner?" she asked.

Sherlock didn't respond.

"I was going to order Chinese," she continued.

"Not now, Molly," he said, carefully taking a swab from the inside of a shoe.

She didn't say anything, but she chewed her lip a little.

"What is it?" asked Sherlock.

"Did I say something wrong that night, when you left abruptly?" she blurted out.

Sherlock didn't look up.

"No," he said. "You gave me an epiphany."

"Oh," said Molly, sounding pleased. "I'm your muse."

"There's no such thing as a muse," said Sherlock. "The idea is romantic nonsense to elevate poets to pedestals they could not get to on merit alone."

Molly blushed. "I know," she said. "But I like it."

And Sherlock found himself at a loss for words. He found himself doing that frequently around Molly – there was a tendency for Molly to be a little like music, she ran away with you, and you didn't quite know where you ended up until everything was a crescendo. Molly reminded him of music – theoretically, there was science behind her, there was logic, there were _words._ And then, she stopped making sense. Because music tended to make people's heartache, it made tears, it stopped making sense because you started hearing it everywhere.

And Sherlock knew – in theory, that music managed to make you feel because of endorphins, because of sensible things such as biological reactions.

And yet, when his heart twinged, he couldn't quite remember what was supposed to have caused it.

* * *

Molly had left to meet her mother a while back. He had not said goodbye, pretending to be engrossed. In reality he was worried by how conscious he was of her presence and absence, how clearly in his head he knew where she was going and who she was going to speak to.

And then he had left for home. The looming halls of Baker Street engulfed him, with little comforts which he paid no attention to. He knew he had to wait for Molly to respond, and he had nothing to distract himself with.

Distractions are funny things – thin veils, curtains, which cover up realities which are much smaller than you expect them to be.

And it so happened that on this day, distractions didn't work – because Molly never responded.

Sherlock paced his halls, a ghost haunting a space that was unused to monsters. He covered every part of the apartment before he allowed himself to think that he was mildly worried. Molly didn't normally not respond – she wrote daily on her arm, unanswered letters which should have been addressed to him.

They always found him, however.

And so, he made up his mind.

* * *

He stood at her door, noting the beautiful little pot of what looked like daisies that she had hung from her door. It was particularly _Molly._

"Sherlock?" said a soft voice.

She had been _crying._

"Who else?" he asked, feigning impatience.

"This isn't a good time," she said gently.

"I need the blood panel, Molly," he said.

The click of the lock was distinct. Molly emerged, and sure enough, there were tear tracks on her eyes. Sherlock felt a surge of unnecessary anger, one that was misplaced.

"I haven't got it," she said.

"Wonderful," said Sherlock. "Then, I'm coming in for tea."

She stepped aside to let him in.

He pottered over to the kitchen, when Molly did something surprising. She took out a cigarette, an ashtray from one of her drawers, and lit the thing.

"Those things kill," Sherlock said, putting on a pot of water.

"That's the aim," said Molly, with a macabre smile.

Sherlock's hand emerged from his pocket, demanding the cigarette. Molly placed a fresh one on his palm.

"Bother you for a light?" asked Sherlock.

Molly's face reached close to his, the cigarette between her lips, carefully held by her two fingers. His own cigarette, clutched between two teeth, puffing gently from hers, lit like a small firefly.

"I know I shouldn't," said Molly. "I don't, normally. I sometimes feel very stressed and miserable, and I do it. The last time it happened was three years back."

"Reassuring," said Sherlock, blowing smoke from his nostrils, busying himself with the pot.

"I know I shouldn't," she repeated. "But I had a bad day. Should have known, meeting my Mum is always painful."

"You'd be surprised at how many people feel the same."

Molly snorted.

"I'd like to have a kid," she said softly. "Just to do it right. So that I get to have a say in how someone else gets fucked up."

"Interesting theory," said Sherlock, adding tea leaves.

"Yeah."

He put a little bit of milk, and poured out the tea in two mugs.

"Thanks," she muttered. She took a deep drag of the cigarette and Sherlock fought the urge to slap it out of her hand.

She had her eyes shut, the firefly glow in her hands – her shapeless pyjamas making some sort of statement about how little she cared. His lips were tingling.

Sentimental twaddle claimed that skin tingled lightly at the touch of soulmates. Sherlock had never believed in that, because Sherlock had never believed in soulmates. He had hardly ever believed in Molly.

Molly _Hooper,_ on the other hand was irrevocably real. Unbelievably real.

"Sherlock?" she murmured.

"Yes?"

"I usually play the piano after a bad day. You won't mind, would you?"

He might have nodded an invisible assent of some kind, because Molly put her cigarette out almost immediately. She sidled down to the piano, and lovingly opened it.

Molly's fingers ghosted over the keys, touching in the softest way possible. Music burst into colour, normally – with Molly, it spread into the water, curling like was everything in Molly's fingers – Sherlock recognised one of Chopin's compositions. He didn't know what Chopin had been thinking, but it seemed he had written it for Molly and for her alone.

* * *

By the time he left, Molly was smiling just a little.

And as he started heading home, his arm tingled.

He waited for the words to appear.

 _I think I might be falling in love._

This was nonsensical.

 _Falling in love._

Why would someone fall in love? How accidental was it? How intentional was it? How much of a mess did it make? How much did you fall? How much did it hurt?

And when he thought of Molly, quietly in her little apartment, crying over her mother, it occurred to him that it must hurt quite a bit.

* * *

On the twentieth of December, Molly was alone.

Sherlock had wondered, and wondered again. He knew Meena had called her briefly – since Molly had written it on her arm absentmindedly, as she tended to. And she'd made plans for tomorrow with Meena. But no one else had called. Sherlock would have known – Molly had reached the morgue, and received no calls. In fact, she'd kept her phone far away from her work station, which puzzled Sherlock.

He looked at her again. She seemed unconcerned.

Molly incited emotions in him. Odd ones – things out of place. In that minute, he felt a misplaced sense of anger towards Molly's family.

He shut his eyes meditatively. What was it about her, that caused him to _feel_ so incessantly? Was it the constancy of her thoughts, the regularity of her whispers? Was it the way she looked, was it her special intelligence? Sherlock didn't know.

Who was Molly Hooper to do this? Why did she have such a power over him?

* * *

The windows of 221 Baker Street were humming.

The violin in Sherlock's hands was contributing to the entire atmosphere. Baker Street seemed to flicker in and out of existence through the violin – the lights dimming and glowing at the will of Sherlock's music.

Abruptly, the music stopped.

Sherlock was looking onto London. The orange glow of the city mixed into the black of sky, stars flickering out of the night thanks to the light pollution.

That was when he picked up a pen – his desk was nearby. His arm was tingling a little, and not because any words had appeared.

* * *

Molly was cooking when it happened.

She ignored the mac and cheese she had decided to make for the sake of comfort, her fingers fumbling as she pulled her sleeve aside.

 _Happy birthday._

The handwriting was slightly familiar. Sloping, but messy.

Her heart stopped.

He looked out at the stars, at London.

"Goodnight, Molly Hooper," he murmured.

No reply came back.

* * *

"I was wondering if you'd like coffee."

Molly looked nervous, as if she had been thinking about this for a while. She had a little lipstick on her lips, her eyes were wide, she looked intensely pretty – which was a strange observation for Sherlock to make, since he tried to think little of what someone looked like.

 _No,_ was what he thought.

Didn't she know?

Every work shifts, eventually, from work to text.

An author's work is a singular piece of writing – lonely, in a way – but a part of them. It exists without all the complications of a _text –_ of different interpretations, of being part of a larger style of writing. People remain works for most of their lives, every part of them – from morning coffee to evening beers, a small work in their overall story.

Molly Hooper had never replied – and he had understood. After years of silence, it had to be a little difficult, especially when she thought she was in love with someone else.

"Black, two sugars," he said quickly.

* * *

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